


Diana's Foresters

by ScarrletRaven



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A bit of a precursor to the series, AU, Actor Richard Brook, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, BDSM, Bondage, Collars, Compulsion, Dark Sherlock, Dubious Consent, F/M, Forced Orgasm, France - Freeform, French, Games, Homosexuality, King Henry IV - Freeform, M/M, Mind Control, Minor Insanity, Oral Fixation, Paris - Freeform, Possessive Sherlock, Richard Brook is Jim Moriarty, Sadism, Shakespeare, Slavery, The main pairing here is Sheriarty, Theatre, Vampire Irene, Vampire Sherlock, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, but don't worry it's in English, but with vampires, compel, forced performances, in an era where it wasn't socially acceptable, mind tricks, plays, servant - Freeform, suggestion, there is only minor Irene/Sherlock, this is a sheriarty-centric work, vampire, vampire!Irene Adler, vampire!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2018-10-01 09:04:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10185776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarrletRaven/pseuds/ScarrletRaven
Summary: “Be still,” Holmes commanded and Richard felt himself growing limp at the suggestion. They were almost to the door when he came out of his shocked stupor and began struggling. Sherlock froze and watched him in fascination. “You are… resisting me?”“I understand you’re handsome, and likely rich, so this may come as a surprise to you, but you can’t just tell people-” Brook lowered his voice and whispered angrily, still trying to free his arm from Sherlock’s grip, “You can’t just tell people you want to take their virginity and then start pulling them out to the street!”The man considered this before replying, “That usually works.”~Richard Brook receives the invitation of a lifetime: Come act in one of the greatest theatres in all of Europe. He leaves his small Irish town behind, along with his father's disappointment, and embarks on the journey of Parisian theatre, but he quickly learns that dark creatures lurk in the shadows of the City of Lights. He catches one such creature's interest, a being known as Sherlock Holmes, and his life is never the same.(See tags for more information)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, darlings! I've been scribbling this in my notebook ever since I read King Henry IV Part I (and saw My Own Private Idaho - both of which I highly recommend). Don't worry if you're not familiar with the play, it really isn't necessary. I see this as a precursor to the modern BBC Sherlock - Moriarty starts out as Richard Brook and you'll have to see where it goes from there.   
> Enjoy!   
> P.S. This is not beta-read. I do the best I can with editing, but I miss things occasionally. Let me know if you spot something I missed!

When Richard Brook stepped onto the platform at the Gare du Nord, he feared immediately the rumors had been true. The sun does not shine in Paris. Voluptuous grey clouds spanned across the horizon, as far as the eye could see. On that chilly Friday evening, further from the Irish countryside than he had ever been, Brook longed for the sun’s warmth. His father would say it served him right, that no amount of sun ever would, nor could, warm him now that Richard had left his family, his home, his traditions, in pursuit of the sinful profession of actor.  _ Like a street walker _ , his father had said,  _ dangling yourself before the public’s eye for mere entertainment _ .

Shame coursed through Richard’s veins, but the sensation only made him angry. He had come to escape his father’s influence, and so he would. He breathed in deeply through his nose - relishing the scent of fresh baguettes even this late in the evening and, while he didn’t smoke, cigarette and pipe smoke - before exhaling through his mouth. He straightened his posture and moved purposefully through the cobblestone streets, refraining more than once from pausing to take in the blue-roofed domiciles and bustling boulangeries. He found the theatre’s name, shining bright in cursive blue lettering upon mahogany wood:  _ Le Théâtre de la Nuit _ . Wetting his lips, Brook lifted a fist and knocked.

“Bonsoir Monsieur,” said a curly-brown haired woman with green eyes as she pulled the theatre doors open. “On est fermé. S’il vous plaît, retournez demain.”

Brook’s head swam at the sound of French drawn from her lips as one would drag smoke from a cigarette. He barely managed to interject before she closed the door, “Je suis Richard Brook! Henri m’a envoyé.” He had repeated the message to himself over and over again on the journey and he prayed the words made sense. 

“You are ze Eerishman?” the woman asked, examining Brook with interest. 

It took a moment before Richard understood her words. He bowed and offered a smile. “The one and only.” Brook saw the woman’s cheeks turn scarlet and wished the opposite sex appealed to him. Any other man would be pleased to see such a response from a young French woman. She turned quickly and gestured inside.

“Welcome ‘ome, Monsieur Bwooks.” Richard followed the young woman, who he learned was called Aurélie, through the theatre. He gasped at the size of the auditorium. Back in Louth, they had at most 20 seats for their performances, and those seats were reserved for the rare occasions when they weren’t performing on the streets. This theatre had  _ rows _ of at least 20 seats each. A multitude of rows. Brook had begun counting and paused when he saw the satin curtains. His breath caught in his throat. Behind the curtains, Brook knew there was a stage waiting to envelope him in its spotlight. 

“You will be sleeping down ‘ere.” Aurélie directed Richard down a flight of stairs to a lower level. He took in the small wooden bed and the thin blankets and momentarily reminisced about his bed back home. The sheets had been soft, and the servants had made the bed every day. But that bed had opened no doors. That bed had chained him to his home, whereas this one promised freedom. 

“Merci,” he thanked as Aurélie excused herself so he could unpack.

 

“Detraction will not suffer it: therefore I’ll none of it,” Brook spoke the words from memory, “Honour is a mere ‘scutcheon and so ends my catechism.” He collapsed onto his small bed and shielded his face in his hands. “It’s a character, Richard,” he whispered to himself. “A character learning that honour has no value for the living. Be him, breathe him.” He took a deep breath and began again.

“Honour,” he tasted the word on his tongue, “pricks me on… Yea, but how if Honour prick me off when I come on? how then?” He stood and paced in the small confines of his room. “Can Honour set to a leg? No. An arm? No! Can Honour take away the grief of a wound? No… What is Honour? A word…” To himself, Brook whispered, “Honour dwells only with the dead. This is a world without Honour.” 

“Most impressive.” A voice broke his concentration. Richard shot upwards in surprise, body tense.

“Monsieur LeCœur! I didn’t realise you were here.” 

“And I’m all the more blessed for it.” The tall man smiled, his lips expanded across his face like a thin scar. He pat Richard’s shoulder as he beckoned him to sit on the bed besides him. “I am glad you could make it to Paris. When I received Henri’s letter of your talent, I knew you were just what this theatre needed.” 

“Thank you, it is an honour being here.” The word  _ honour _ felt wrong on Richard’s tongue so soon after having become Falstaff. 

Benoît LeCœur leaned against the wall as he took in the young actor sitting besides him. The director and theatre owner reclined in such a way that showed great comfort in the nooks and crannies of his theatre. “You must know, Monsieur Brook, this theatre of mine attracts a wealth of patrons.” 

“A wealth?” Brook tasted the words on his tongue, feeling them for their dual meaning. “I noticed upon entering that the audience the plays attract must be… large.” 

Monsieur LeCœur nodded. “Indeed. We have balcony seats reserved for the best Europe has to offer. Some of the most influential figures of France and, dare I say, Europe, come to see our plays.” Benoît paused, taking in Brook who calmly met his gaze despite his quickened heartbeat. “Are you comfortable performing in front of not only a large audience, but also people of substantial power?” 

Now it was Richard’s turn to smile tightly. “Monsieur LeCœur, I may be from a small town in Ireland, but theatre is my art. I breathe this art best when in the spotlight, regardless of who may be watching.” 

“Excellent.” That must have been the response the theatre owner had been hoping for. He sat up straighter. “The troupe will begin practice tomorrow at ten in the morning. In two months, we will have our first performance.” 

 

The two months were some of the worst and best times in Richard’s life. The troupe was small, with understudies only for the main characters, and Richard realised what a privilege it was for him to have been chosen. Seventeen actors played a total of nineteen roles, with three understudies there to fill in should anything happen to a lead. Richard himself held the role of Falstaff, a main character, and Owain Glyndwr, a Welshman who appeared infrequently. 

The French actor, Michel Bordet, played Prince Hal. The actor’s long, dark, curly hair drew Richard to him instantaneously, as did his dark green eyes. He had an alluring charm which his subtle movements and gentle grace accentuated on stage. The banter between Richard’s character and Michel’s played naturally off their tongues, and Richard had to keep colour from his cheeks when the nineteen year old French actor winked at him after their third rehearsal. 

Octave, who played Prince Hal’s foil, Hotspur, glared at Richard and refused to speak to him outside of rehearsal. Richard had overheard Octave speaking poorly of him in French as he began to subtly pick up the language. Michel assured Richard that Octave didn’t take well to foreign actors, and that was the cause of his unprofessionalism, but Richard saw how the man looked at Michel. Richard had always had a knack for reading people, and he was certain Octave was jealous Brook had snagged the gifted Frenchman’s attentions. The thought made Richard smirk, let him be jealous.

Exploring Paris became less daunting with Michel by his side. Over the course of the two months, the banter between Michel and Richard had evolved into subtle flirtations. The night before their first performance, Michel had asked the Irishman out. He took Richard to his favourite  _ brasserie _ and ordered him some  _ vin chaud _ .

The pub was bustling. Drunk Frenchmen stumbled over one another as they ordered more drinks, or were dragged home by their friends. The lean figures of the Frenchmen surprised Richard, and he wondered how they could eat such rich food and drink and stay so thin. 

“It’s the smoking,” a voice answered his unspoken question.

Richard glanced around and saw a tall figure approach him from the shadows. The man had dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Richard felt mesmerised by his pale skin. He had to remind himself to breathe. “Sorry?”

“Ah, Irish.” The man smiled at Richard, all teeth. He looked positively starved, though the actor had a feeling it wasn’t food he was craving. 

“Here you are,” Michel interrupted the conversation as he returned with the hot wine. He glanced around when he saw Richard staring off behind him, but the tall figure had disappeared. “Problem?”

“No, no.” Richard accepted the drink and offered a small smile. “Thank you.”

“Santé!” Michel exclaimed, clinking their glasses together.

“Cheers,” Richard replied. He absent-mindedly lifted his cup to his lips and swallowed. The sweet, warm wine curled in his stomach and Richard almost forgot about the man. After the third drink, he spoke up, “One would think you’re trying to get me drunk, darling.” The  _ darling _ slipped off his tongue.

Michel leaned forward, his pupils blown so that only a rim of green remained. “And what if I said I was?”

“I’d feel obliged to remind you that I’m Irish. It’s going to take much more than this to get me pissed.” 

“Oh?” The soft word caused Brook’s loins to stir. “My dear Falstaff, I believe I have sack greater than this at my estate.” 

“My young Prince Hal,” Richard played along, “thou knowest I’m not one to turn down good sack.”

The Irishman slapped some francs onto the table and stood to follow Michel out of the pub. He paused when the hairs on his neck stood, as if a draft of cool air had passed through him. He turned and shivered when he saw blue eyes piercing him from the far end of the bar. The man from earlier wore a dark coat with the lapels turned upwards, making him look even paler. Richard could swear you could cut butter with those cheekbones. The blue eyes refused to leave Richard’s form. He found himself take a step closer to the man.

“Richard!” Michel called from the doorway. “Are you coming?”

“Yeah.” Richard shook himself. He looked between his friend and the stranger in confusion before following Michel outside. “Who was that in there?” he asked once they moved down the cobblestone streets and towards Michel’s flat.

“You’re going to have to be a little more specific,” Michel teased.

“Mysterious, tall, pale as a corpse, dark hair, blue eyes…”

Michel laughed as he came to a stop in front of a building identical to the rest. “You mean Monsieur Holmes.”

“Monsieur Holmes?” Richard frowned. He had become so used to speaking French, he couldn’t remember if Holmes had spoken to him in French or English. “That doesn’t sound very French.”

Michel shrugged as he unlocked the door. “From what I’ve heard, his accent is perfect, but he speaks English too. It’s been rumored that he speaks all languages, but I’m not one to believe such rumors. You might see him tomorrow; he rarely misses our opening nights.” The actor ushered Brook inside. “But enough about him. Let’s think about us now, hm?” 

Richard followed Michel up flight after flight of stairs, the young actor’s tight ass keeping him going. He found himself suddenly thankful for his living arrangements. He didn’t know how Michel made it up and down all those stairs every day. 

Michel’s hands shook as he unlocked the door to his flat. The pair had barely passed through the threshold when Michel wrapped his arms around Richard’s waist and pulled him flush against himself, taking the gasp of surprise as an invitation to breathe air into Richard’s lungs. Michel kicked the door shut and maneuvered them over to the mattress in the corner of the room. The dirty clothes which littered the floor sent them tumbling onto the mattress, wrapped in each other’s embrace.

Michel pulled back abruptly, leaving Brook’s lips humming. He dug through the clothes and pulled out a flask. “Your sack, Sir Falstaff,” he said as he offered a small vial filled with green liquid. 

“What-”

Michel pressed his finger to Richard’s abused lips. “Shh…” He offered the bottle again with his free hand. “Drink.”

Richard accepted the vial and took a hesitant swig. The liquid burned its way down his throat and to his loins. 

“That’s it?” Michel teased. “I thought you Irishmen could drink more than that.” 

Challenge accepted, Richard threw the bottle back and sucked it dry. He forced himself to keep a straight face as it lit his insides on fire. Within minutes, his head was swimming. He couldn’t focus on Michel. He could only feel the small man’s body writhing against his own, taste the Frenchman on his tongue. Richard leaned up into Michel’s embrace, but the weight of the other man was gone. 

“Michel…?” he slurred, trying to sit up, but he was too far gone. 

Another weight settled onto him. Richard found himself staring up into enchanting blue eyes.  _ Monsieur Holmes _ , the back of his drunk mind supplied. This close, he noticed flecks of green scattered throughout the blue. 

“Pretty,” he murmured with a smile. He reached up brushed Monsieur Holmes’ curly brown hair out of the pale man’s face. The man’s brow furrowed and Richard ran a finger across his full, red lips. “What’s your name, love? Not your family name, but  _ your _ name. Your most personal name.”

Holmes leaned down, his cool breath pricking Richard’s neck as he whispered, “Sherlock.” 

 

“Richard? Richard, dear, are you alright?” 

Richard woke to the sound of Michel’s voice. He opened his eyes to find the young man straddling him, shaking his shoulders while staring down at him with soulful green eyes. “Michel?” 

The actor got off him and helped Richard up. The world spun. “Slowly now, you had quite a bit to drink last night.” 

“What did you give me?” His head throbbed and his body ached. 

Michel dipped his head apologetically. “The Green Fairy.”

“Absinthe? Is that legal?” 

“It is here.” Michel offered Richard some water. He took a few sips before sitting back down on the mattress, vision blurred. 

“What time is it?” 

“Uhh…” Michel glanced at his clock. “Half past noon.” 

“Shit!” Brook started up. “We need to get to the theatre.” 

“Wait-” Michel pressed his hands against Brook’s chest, keeping him from standing. His jade eyes were wide with concern. “Do you remember what happened last night?”

Richard closed his eyes and saw blue-green eyes, sharp cheekbones… He shuttered when he heard the name drawled from those full lips,  _ Sherlock _ . “Nothing happened.” 

“Nothing?” Michel worried his lower lip. “Because I remember us kissing. I remember that very clearly, then… nothing.”

“You’re the one who was relatively sober. You tell me what happened.” At Michel’s silence, Richard sighed. “Listen, let’s discuss this tonight. We have to go before we’re later than we already are.” 

 

The pair passed through the theatre doors to find the entire troupe waiting for them inside. 

“There you are!” Benoît exclaimed, rushing over to them with long strides. “I was worried something untoward had happened to the two of you.” 

“I apologise, Monsieur LeCœur. I introduced Richard here to the Green Fairy.” 

The theatre owner looked furious, but he took a moment to calm himself - the rest of the troupe silently watching the exchange. “Well, you’re here now and that’s what’s important. No more Green Fairy until performances are over, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” they both replied. 

“Good, then get to makeup and rehearsal.” Monsieur LeCœur turned back to the rest of the troupe who were still watching the exchange. “Get going, men. We’ve got a long night ahead of us!” 

Octave shouldered past Richard on his way backstage. Richard could tell by the man’s cold glower what he suspected had happened between the pair. Even though Octave’s guess was incorrect, Richard felt pleased by the other man’s irritation. 

After makeup and dress, Michel caught up with Richard and pressed a flask of water into his hand. “Make sure to stay hydrated.”

Brook could tell by the look in Michel’s eyes that the young actor was afraid he’d pass out on stage. He hoped he didn’t look as awful as he felt. His head was light, but full of noise. Blue eyes flashed through his mind and he whispered, “Sherlock,” testing the weight of the name on his tongue.  _ A dream _ , he told himself,  _ a drunken dream _ .

He waited in the wings until scene 2 came around.

“Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?” he asked. 

As Michel launched into his dialogue, Richard felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. He directed his gaze towards the dimly-lit audience, gazing upward until his eyes locked with Monsieur Holmes'. The man whispered something to a beak-nosed gentleman sitting besides him. Michel’s words brought him back, “...I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of day.”

At his cue, Richard strolled towards Michel. “Indeed, you come near me now, Hal,” he said, his heart pounding in his chest under Holmes’ scrutiny, “for we that take purses, go by the moon and the seven stars, and not by Phoebes. Let not us that are squires of the night’s body be called thieves of the day’s beauty: Let us be Diana’s foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon.”

The banter in their scene progressed and Poins joined them on stage. Richard regained himself, but even as the play turned from Act II to Act IV, he still couldn’t shake the feeling of Monsieur Holmes’ gaze. As the play wrapped to a close, Brook moved backstage and had costuming help him out of his makeup and clothes. He pieced together his suit before joining his fellow actors and guests at the soirée. 

“Excellent job out there, Brook!” Monsieur LeCœur patted Richard on the back as the man emerged in the parlour. “That was one of the best performances this theatre has ever seen. Your Honour speech was perfect. You and Monsieur Bordet work very well together.”

“Thank you, Monsieur LeCœur. Michel is very talented.”

“As are you, Brook. I see a bright future for you.” The theatre owner gave Brook one more pat on the back before beckoning him towards the crowds. “Go, enjoy yourself.” He added as an afterthought, “Just try not to enjoy yourself too much.”

Richard dipped his head respectfully as the theatre owner ran after Octave to deliver more praises. 

“That was quite the performance.”

The actor turned slowly and met Monsieur Holmes’ interested blue eyes. This close, he realised the aristocratic man was taller than he originally thought. He was forced to look upward into those mirth-filled eyes. 

“I hardly recognise you out of costume,” Holmes continued. “It seems even your mannerisms were part of the act, as they too have changed greatly.”

The man’s words caused Richard’s skin to prickle. He had been watching him intently for the entire performance and likely from the moment he emerged from backstage. “Excuse me, Monsieur, I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.” Richard deemed it socially inappropriate to consider their encounter at the brasserie as making acquaintances.

“Oh, I believe we had.” The man smirked at him as they shook hands. “My name is Monsieur Holmes, but I recall you wishing to refer to me by my prénom,” the French word for first name rolled off his tongue naturally, transfixing Richard, “ _ Sherlock _ .” 

Richard retracted his hand like he had been bitten. “But that was a dream…” His tone switched to accusatory as he realised what this unrepentant confession meant. “You followed us from the bar!” He glanced around for Michel, but couldn’t spot him in the sea of people. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said as he took a step closer to the actor.

“Why?” Brook asked, refusing to back down even as Monsieur Holmes invaded his personal space. He could feel the man’s cool breath on his skin, he was so close.

“Because,” Sherlock leaned forward and whispered, “I will be the one to take your virginity.” 

Richard stumbled backwards in surprise, and would have fallen had Monsieur Holmes not reached out and grabbed hold of his arm. He felt his face turn bright red and wondered if he had heard correctly. The tall man began pulling him through the crowds and Richard struggled. 

“ _ Be still _ ,” Holmes commanded and the actor felt himself growing limp at the suggestion. They were almost to the door when he came out of his shocked stupor and began struggling. Holmes froze and watched him in fascination. “You are… resisting me?”

“I understand you’re handsome, and likely rich, so this may come as a surprise to you, but you can’t just tell people-” Brook lowered his voice and whispered angrily, still trying to free his arm from Holmes’ grip, “You can’t just tell people you want to take their virginity and then start pulling them out to the street!” 

The man considered this before replying, “That usually works.” 

Richard couldn’t believe the audacity. These French city-folk must have very different cultural norms. “Well, I’m not your ordinary bloke, do you understand me?” Brook yanked once more, but Holmes’ grip was unrelenting. He was considering screaming, then the beak-nosed man Holmes had been sitting next to joined them.

“Ahh, Sherlock, what have we here?” Richard felt he had been saved. 

“None of your business, Mycroft.”

“English,” he spoke his realisation aloud. 

The pair looked at him. “Excuse me?” Beak-Nosed asked.

“The both of you. You’re English. From London, to be more specific.” It was obvious. From the names to the slight clip of their language - both their French (the slight English accent would have gone unnoticed by a lesser trained ear) and their English (Sherlock tried to hide his Queen’s English accent in elevated commoner’s tongue while speaking English, whereas Mycroft embraced it). 

“How did you know that?” Mycroft turned an accusatory gaze towards Sherlock. “Has my little brother been telling secrets?”

_ Brother, _ Richard repeated the word in his mind, while Sherlock tightened his grip on his arm. “No, this one just isn’t daft.” Sherlock glared daggers at his elder brother. “And he’s mine. Get your own.”

_ They’re both gay? _ Brook wondered, tugging fruitlessly against the grip that was sure to bruise if not cause nerve damage. “Actually, I’m spoken for, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be-”

“Quiet,” Mycroft interrupted. The Holmes brothers were staring each other down like two very hungry lions with a Richard-meal caught between them.

“He’s  _ mine _ ,” Sherlock repeated, grip tightening even further with the words. Brook gasped in pain. He looked around in a panic, wondering why the other guests weren’t interfering. They were all moving around and talking, looking anywhere but at the Holmes brothers and the unfortunate actor caught between the two of them. “I’ve already claimed him.”

“Not possible,” Mycroft remarked. “If you had, he’d be much more pliable to your will.” All the same, the elder Holmes took a step towards Brook - and the actor was beginning to believe that personal space was not a concept amongst Londoners - and sniffed him.

Richard stood aghast. “Stop this right now, this behaviour is beyond absurd-”

“ _ Silence _ ,” Sherlock ordered.

Brook opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out. Panic and fear coiled in his gut.

“Well that one worked quite nicely.”

“It won’t last,” Sherlock countered. He began tugging the actor towards the door anew. “This one is stronger than any I’ve encountered before.” Brook looked at the man and staggered backwards. Sherlock was grinning, his wide smile revealed two long canines, the tips of which came to a sharp point, and Brook could swear that Sherlock’s blue eyes were glowing.

“Fine.” Mycroft huffed. “Just be careful not to break him as you did the last one.” 

At those words, Sherlock swung the doors open and pulled Brook into the rainy streets. As they turned around the corner, Brook being dragged behind Sherlock, the actor finally recovered his voice. 

“Demon!” he exclaimed.

Richard gasped as Sherlock slammed him into a wall, knocking the wind out of him. “Aren’t you clever, Mister Brook.” 

His eyes were definitely glowing an unnatural blue in the darkness of the night, but Brook refused to be intimidated. “My father warned me of your kind, but I thought he was just trying to control me through fear.” His gaze hardened. “I can’t be controlled.” 

“Not through fear, no,” Sherlock said with a grin. “You can be controlled, though. I’ll just have to find through what means. You look to me like a challenge, and  _ oh _ ,” Sherlock licked a strip of flesh at the base of Richard’s neck causing the actor to tremble, “do I love a challenge.” 

True fear pulsed through Richard’s veins. His mind was screaming  _ predator _ , but he couldn’t fight or run. He struggled as Sherlock locked lips with him and forced his tongue inside Brook’s mouth. The wet organ swept through his entire mouth, tasting and claiming everything in its path. When Sherlock pulled back, Richard realised he had released him. He took a few steps, then broke into a sprint. His mouth felt numb. He could feel his heart beating in his throat. The numbness spread to his jaw; his eyes went unfocused and his limbs collapsed beneath him. He fell face first into the wet cobblestone.

Pain coursed through him as black boots approached. He felt himself lifted off the ground and taken into someone’s arms before everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think in the comments! See you next time, loves!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let the games begin.

When Richard awoke, the first thing he noticed was that he was stripped down to his pants. He startled and nearly choked; A heavy metal collar around his neck chained him to the wall. Richard’s teeth chattered and he rubbed his bare legs. In the dimness of the room, lit by a single candle in the corner, he could see his breath on the air.

Richard glanced around, but saw no one in the shadows. His stiff legs ached as he stood. He grabbed the chain attached to his neck and pulled, but it budged no more than Sherlock’s grip had. He inspected the wall where the chain was bolted - eight total nails dug deep into the stone kept him in place. He tugged on one, but only managed to hurt his fingers. 

The chain permitted him to move a meter in any direction. The door was at least three meters away.  _ Think, think, _ he told himself.  _ Pretend it’s a play. How would the character escape? _ He glanced around the room. The space was empty. He chewed on his lower lip before turning back to the stone wall and noticed that the stones looked loose. He pulled on them, tugging on one after another. Each defiantly clung to its space and he could feel his fingerpads tearing against the wall. 

Finally, one budged. He pulled it from the wall and started to find a pair of pliers hidden in the space behind where the stone used to be.  _ Too easy _ , he thought.  _ He wouldn’t have left this here unless he wanted me to find it _ . 

Even still, Richard removed the nails from the wall. He felt too vulnerable nearly-naked and chained in the small room.  _ Because _ , he still heard Sherlock’s voice wash over him,  _ I will be the one to take your virginity _ . The demon had spoken with absolute certainty and confidence, had spoken the words like fact. Brook’s skin crawled as he used one of the nails, hands shaking slightly, to try to free his neck from the metal collar. It wouldn’t budge. 

Richard took a deep breath, trying not to let the panic biting at the back of his throat choke him, and considered his situation. He had no clue how long he had been out, and therefore no clue how far away from Paris he was. He strained his ears, but could hear no carriages, no horses, no music, just a hum ever present on the air - the sound of silence.

Did Sherlock leave him here to starve? To be eaten alive by rats? He had heard horror tales from his elder brother about people being eaten by rats in cities. Did he intend for Richard to go mad? He nearly laughed at the thought. Oh, his father had done worse, much worse, when Richard’s predisposition towards his friend, Thomas, had become clear at age eleven. While the physical scars from the abuse had healed, Richard held onto the mental ones. Whenever he caught the eye of an attractive stranger and felt ashamed, he used the memories of what his father had done to him and pushed back the guilt. He would not be controlled. Not by his father, nor by this demon. 

With his resolve firm, Richard used the pliers to remove the remaining nails. He freed himself from the wall and crept across the cold, stone floor. Underground, he decided. The stones held the chill better underground. The candle flickered and Richard froze. When it gave no further sign of going out, he continued towards the door. 

Richard held a nail in one hand defensively, and the chain in the other to minimise noise. He had to shift the nail into the hand holding the chain when he tried the doorknob. It opened without resistance. 

Tentatively, Richard stepped into the hallway - hyperaware of his exposed flesh. The hall stretched left and right; The stone walls looked the same in both directions, but the lighting differed. The path to the left was lit by candles, whereas the one to the right was dark. 

Richard returned to the room and retrieved the candle, moving slowly to keep it from extinguishing. The heated wax burnt his fingers, and he readjusted his grip. If the demon expected him to stay out of the darkened halls, he didn’t know what he was dealing with. Richard felt comfortable in the dark. He took the right path and wondered if this was Sherlock’s private estate or if he’d been sold off to some demon-run human trafficking organisation. Richard’s wrist was still bruised from Sherlock’s possessive grip when the demon’s brother had approached, so the actor decided it must be the former. 

He took a deep, steadying breath and continued down the hall. His feet were beginning to burn as the coldness from the tiles seeped into his flesh. The chains rattled as he shivered.

When he reached the end of the hall, Richard found himself confronted by two doors. The first was carved entirely of wood. Even the hinges were wooden. The second was made entirely out of metal - silver, if he wasn’t mistaken. But why have a silver door? A display of wealth? Richard’s skin began to crawl as he looked at the shiny silver door. Something about it unsettled him. 

Decidedly, Richard reached for the wooden knob. The room was dazzling. Lanterns, shrouded in jewels, refracted the light around the entire room, creating geometric patterns Richard had never dreamt of. He reached towards the cascading patterns when a voice stopped him.

“Seven minutes, forty-six seconds.” 

Richard spun towards Sherlock Holmes who stood - fully clothed, he noted and wasn’t sure if this observation should reassure or concern him - in the corner of the room. He held a book in his slender hands and lifted his gaze from it to take in the naked Irishman in his parlour. “You were timing me?” Richard asked.

“Obviously.” The demon’s eyes did not fall below Richard’s, but the actor still felt his cheeks burn crimson due to his limited clothed state. 

“Is this all some sort of sick game to you? Because I’m not playing.” 

The words had the opposite effect he’d intended. A glimmer danced through Sherlock’s eyes and he approached Richard in strides, voice caramelised apples at the town fair. “Oh, but you already are.” 

_ Mesmerised, _ Richard thought as he couldn’t tear his eyes from Sherlock’s,  _ this must be how it feels to be mesmerised. _

There would be no evading this game, at least not for now. Someone at the theatre would notice his absence and come looking for him. Michel knew Richard had mentioned Monsieur Holmes before. He might be suspicious. Richard hardened his expression. If there was anything Richard was good at, it was acting.  He’d play along, at least for now. He’d indulge the demon until the time came for this play to end.

“Why the counting?” the actor asked.

“It was a challenge.”  _ Obvious _ hung on each word. The allure in Sherlock’s eyes receded marginally. Can’t have that. Interest could be the only thing keeping Richard alive right now. 

“And these… challenges. Do you have them often?” 

“If someone slightly worthwhile comes along,” Sherlock responded, eyes not leaving the man standing before him. “I’m a fair judge of potential, but those with it do not always possess the skills to harness it and transpose it to reality.” 

Richard tried to follow along, knew that his life might depend upon it. “And your challenges seek to determine whether or not they do.” A statement. No response from the demon save his calculating gaze flickering across Richard’s face, taking in and categorising every micro-expression found there. “There’ll be more then?” 

A curt nod. 

“And afterwards? If I pass?” 

“No one ever has.”

Richard tried to push back the fear enough to consider this. There had been others, before him. Where were they now? He swallowed. Sherlock’s eyes followed the movement of his Adam’s apple. Richard went through his options. He could make a run for it. No. The Holmes brothers possessed blatant wealth. Even if he could maneuver his way through this maze of an estate, there could be guards blocking the exits. Or booby traps. Did those exist, in real life? With Sherlock staring at him like he wanted to consume him, Richard couldn’t discard the possibility. 

“You passed the first challenge. Faster than most,” Sherlock finally said, without praise. He took another step closer to Richard. The Irishman could see those alluring green flecks swirling in Sherlock’s eyes, reminding him that the creature before him wasn’t human.

He tightened his grip on the chain, still attached to his neck, when Sherlock removed the forgotten candle from his right hand. As he did so, he remembered the nail. With the demon’s back turned, Richard saw his opportunity.

Richard leapt forward and wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s waist and, with the other, pressed the nail against his neck.

“ _ Drop it _ .”

Richard’s hand shook. He could feel the voice tearing through his mind.  _ Hold on _ , he told himself,  _ just hold on and you’ll have leverage to get out of here _ . He pressed the nail harder against Sherlock’s neck, knicking the skin. Black blood oozed to the surface and welled down Sherlock’s collarbone. Richard’s hand continued to shake, but he would not drop the nail.

Laughter. Nail to his throat and Sherlock Holmes was laughing. His head tossed backwards and his mouth opened wide to reveal those sharp white teeth, he looked absolutely monstrous. Richard received no warning before Sherlock twisted his nail-wielding arm backwards and pinned him, face against the wall. His heart pounded in his chest and the nail fell from his hand, clattering against the marble floor. 

“Remarkable.” Richard squirmed at the word rasped against his all too naked flesh, but quickly stilled himself when Sherlock’s hand, just below the metal collar, tightened on his neck. “No human has ever defied me before.”

Richard swallowed back his retort,  _ No wonder you’re such an arrogant prick _ .

“Oh, Mister Brook, what fun I’m going to have with you.” Richard shivered at the words. Sherlock flipped him around and slammed him back against the wall. Richard’s head spun due to the force. “But first,” Sherlock was saying while wiping blood from his collarbone, “I believe you owe me for this.” The demon ran a finger through his blood before turning his rapt attention back to the man pinned to the wall. “ _ Open your mouth _ .”

His resistance was weaker, as the command came unexpectedly, and his lips parted long enough for Sherlock to rub his thick, black blood over Richard’s tongue. 

“ _ Swallow _ .”

For what it was worth, Richard fought like hell. Sherlock released him from the wall, but his suggestion bore heavily down upon Richard’s mind. The actor fell to his knees, struggling not to swallow as his tongue burned. He couldn’t  _ breathe _ . Sherlock’s voice echoed in his mind and Richard’s eyes watered.  _ Swallow _ . The light in the room was suddenly blinding. His throat constricted and spasmed. It wanted to obey. 

It did.

Richard gasped aloud as the blood burned through him. He clawed at the ground in pain. Somehow, he ended up at Sherlock’s polished leather shoes and was holding the left one - no, the right one - in his hands, sobbing onto it. It hurt. God, it  _ hurt _ .

There was no joy in Sherlock’s eyes when Richard looked up at him, only intrigue.

“Ice,” Richard rasped. “Please, it’s so hot. I  _ need _ ice.” 

“No.”

The blatant denial caused tears to prick at Richard’s eyes. His hands slipped off the shoe and he buried his head in the crook of his elbows. Nothing Father had done had hurt like this. This pain was all-consuming, impossible to rationalise and categorise away. It demanded his attention - demanded every muscle tighten, every parse of skin burn.

Richard writhed on the floor, and through it all, Sherlock stared down at him.

When his muscles finally stopped twitching and his body - still hot, but no longer on fire - stilled, he lay completely flat on the floor at Sherlock’s feet.

The demon pronounced, “Twenty-six minutes, thirty-one seconds.” 

Anger boiled inside Richard. Enough for him to push his aching muscles off the floor and drive himself to stand, shakily, before the demon. “You prat. You absolute-”

“ _ Silence _ .” 

His mouth continued moving, but much like the night of his taking, no words escaped. Richard glared as Sherlock smiled jovially at him.

“I’ll need you suggestible for a number of the challenges to come,” Sherlock said, as if that explained the torment he’d just put the actor through. “It appears you have a natural immunity to suggestion - something that would make even your death permissible to my brother since we wouldn’t want that immunity to be passed on.” 

Richard’s eyes widened, and he tried to scream at the man standing before him, but no words came out. If Sherlock saw his panic, he gave no sign.

“I presume your immunity is why my blood caused you so much pain - it has different effects on different people, but no one has ever writhed for as long as you did, regardless of the effect. We’ll have to test your level of influence under varying levels and types of blood-influence. For now, you’ll stay at the manor until you’ve been adequately tamed.”

Richard stared in disbelief as Sherlock spoke the words, as if he was being a courteous host. 

“Let’s start with some ground rules, shall we?” Sherlock continued. It seemed like Brook didn’t have much choice in the matter. “Since I’ve taken you on, you will be my responsibility. Therefore, you’ll be sleeping in my chamber and staying to my wing of the manor.” At Richard’s surprised look, Sherlock elaborated, “This manor is shared between me, my elder brother - who you’ve already had the misfortune of meeting - and my Mistress. Should my brother visit you, ignore him. He knows you belong to me and has no claim on you. Should my Mistress visit you, however…” Sherlock frowned for the first time since Richard had met him. “I’d advise you to do anything she demands, short of sex. I promised you: your first time will be with me.” 

The demon began pacing, long legs covering the room’s distance in five strides. He was visibly agitated by the thought of anyone else taking Richard’s first time. The actor wondered if he would have been spared all of this had he only had sex before meeting the demon. He tested his voice again, and feared the demon had turned him into a mute when no sound came out. 

“We haven’t many choices as far as food goes, but nutrition is of utmost importance. The kitchen staff will provide you with your sustenance, but I will change your diet as I see fit. On matters of eliminating, I’ll have pots brought into the rooms you’ll be staying in, please do try to use them and not to miss. I expect you to remain clean if you are to be sharing my chambers.” 

“I am not a dog!” Richard burst out, finally finding his voice.

“Seven minutes flat,” Sherlock commented. “Better, but still not good enough.” 

The actor turned heel and strode to exit the room. He sputtered when he was pulled backwards by the neck. Sherlock had the chain in his hands.

“I never said you could leave.” 

Brook look at him darkly. “I don’t require your permission.”

Long fingers tapped the chains and Brook could feel the vibrations travel to his neck and spread throughout his body. “There’s one final matter, though I’ve a feeling you’ll take to this one the least.” 

“Oh, pray tell.”  

“Your name,” Sherlock said simply.

“What of it?” The demon seemed to know his name well enough. 

“It’ll have to change. We can’t very well have us rousing suspicions, especially with you being a not talentless actor.” 

Richard stared at him in shock. “You can’t change my name.”

“I can. I have. It’s decided.” Before Richard could argue, Sherlock commanded, “ _ Come _ .”

Richard screamed as he collapsed to the floor, his flaccid penis growing suddenly erect and leaving his pants wet. He shook in fury and embarrassment. When he looked up, he startled to see even Sherlock surprised.

“Precision of speech,” the demon scolded himself. “Not my intention, but arguably better. You’ve had sex on your mind since you woke up, haven’t you?” When Richard shook his head, Sherlock commanded, “ _ Tell the truth _ .”

“Yes!” His cheeks were burning. “It’s hard not to when you physically assaulted me in a bed, then keep spouting claims about taking my virginity!” 

At this, Sherlock smiled. “ _ Again _ .”

Richard cried out as he came again. His entire body shuddered, refractory period denied. “ _ Stop _ .” 

“You know a thing about suggestion? Without precise language, the interpretation falls to the suggestee. Even the simple word ‘again’,” Richard flinched despite the lack of command, “translates to orgasming for you.”

_ This isn’t my fault _ , Brook wanted to say. Instead, he remained silent.

Sherlock removed a handkerchief from his suit pocket and knelt besides Brook. “ _ Hold still _ ,” he commanded when the actor shied away. Rooted to the ground, Richard was forced to allow Sherlock to clean him up. The demon removed his pants and Richard looked pointedly away. He would have jerked away when the demon ran the cloth over his sensitive private area were it not for the command. He felt the need to shield himself in clothing.

Once finished, Sherlock stood and said, “ _ Stand up and follow me _ .”

Richard found himself led through hall after twisting hall, through dark and light. Sherlock reached for him in the dark, a guiding force. In the light, Richard struggled to keep up. After a few sharp turns in the labyrinth, Sherlock opened a grand set of mahogany doors and strode into a large, black-carpeted bedroom. 

The four-poster bed in the center of the room reminded Brook much of Sherlock; It took up the room with its presence. The black silk sheets were neatly tucked underneath the mattress while the dark blue duvet possessed a whimsical charm - different from the rest of the room. 

Richard’s feet continued to betray him, following Sherlock as he moved towards the bed. When Sherlock tossed him onto the bed, the fight awoke in Brook’s limbs. He kicked, he clawed - hell, he even tried to bite, anything to get the demon away from him. Sherlock said nothing as he restrained the actor like it was child’s play, feet first, then wrists.

_ Vulnerable _ , Richard thought when he found the restraints wouldn’t budge. He was naked, trapped, and spread eagle in the demon’s den.

Sherlock tucked his handkerchief into his pristine white shirt and shrugged off his suit jacket. 

“What are you going to do to me?”  _ Not weak. Make your gaze strong, unafraid _ , Richard reminded himself until he embodied defiance. 

“What’s necessary.” 

_ Rape? _ Brook wondered.  _ What else could this be? _ But besides the discarded jacket, Sherlock kept his clothes on. The demon crawled over him, as he had that first night. With careful fingers, he removed the collar from Brook’s neck and tossed it to the floor without looking away from the man beneath him. The actor tugged on the restraints, but only confirmed what he already knew: there would be no getting out of this one.

_ Still yourself. It hurts less if you’re relaxed _ . Lessons he’d learned from his childhood came to mind. His muscles uncoiled, his breathing steadied, and he glared at the demon who stared at him, transfixed. “Do it,” he dared.

Sherlock pressed himself flush against Richard and ran his tongue along the left side of his neck. The skin grew numb until he could feel nothing but pressure. The actor stared at the ceiling. He focused on the smooth lines, searching for imperfections. Then the pressure became something else.  _ Be still _ , he reminded himself, and just managed it. The demon was invading him, entering him through his neck. He could feel the intrusion probing at his mind, worse than any suggestion.

Sherlock wrapped one hand around Richard’s right bicep, the other curled into his hair. The demon thrummed against him, inside him. Deeper.  _ James _ , a voice shook in his mind. Sherlock’s voice.  _ James _ . He found himself mouthing the word.  _ James Moriarty _ . My name? Brook. No.  _ Moriarty _ , the voice pushed again. 

What was his name? It began with an R. Ryan? He reached, searching. He recalled instances of his father mouthing that word, his name. He recalled friends calling to him, his elder brother’s nickname for him.  _ Jim. Jimmy _ . That’s it.  _ James Moriarty _ . 

The presence pushed through his mind, filling it, licking every corner of it, before withdrawing alongside the pressure. Sherlock licked his lips and leaned back to take in the man beneath him. Sherlock’s eyes were alight, liquid silver burning through them.

“ _ Tell me your name _ .” He said it like a challenge. 

The name slipped off his lips, “James Moriarty.” 

Sherlock nodded, but did not look pleased. He moved off Jim and stood besides him. “What have you done to me?” Jim asked, his mind pulsing, feeling altogether too empty and too full.

“What was necessary.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey darlings! Currently working on Chapter Three, but since Spring Break is over, uni is making it a bit more tricky. I'll do my best though! Let me know what you think so far down below! 
> 
> ~SR


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Reichenbach Day! (aka Sheriarty day in some circles) Just finished my last final exam today, so I'm back with another chapter!

Jim buried his face in the surprisingly soft pillows. His stomach grumbled, his dry throat burned with each swallow, and his fingers shook as he felt the wound Sherlock had left on his neck. Every time he thought about what Sherlock had done to him, his mind felt like it was full of cotton. He groaned into the pillow.

Turning over, he stared at the ceiling and thought about the demon. Sherlock proved to know little about human nutrition and Jim hoped for his own sake that the staff Sherlock had mentioned brought him food soon. The blue eyed creature had left him almost immediately after assaulting him both physically and mentally. They had exchanged no words. Sherlock had simply left. It could be another challenge, but at the moment Jim didn’t _care_. His mind kept going back to the theatre, to those moments in the spotlight, to Michel winking at him. They’d come for him. They had to.

 _Unless,_ a particularly unsavory part of his mind said, _the demon suggests they’re wrong_. He could be out doing that right now. He could convince the theatre and the officers that he had nothing to do with Moriarty’s disappearance. Then, they’d never find him.

Jim jumped off the bed. He had to _do_ something. He scanned the room. A skull sat on a black shelf in the corner and Moriarty didn’t want to consider who it may have belonged to. There were books in various languages on the shelves below the skull. Most of the books were French and English and appeared to be scientific in nature. Amongst them, Jim also saw literary works by some authors he recognised: Shakespeare, Moliere, Corneille, and Voltaire.

A thick leather-bound book caught Jim’s eye and he snatched it from the shelf. The book was clean and pristinely bound. He cracked it open and was greeted by a poem in ornate across the first page.

_O Rose thou art sick._

_The invisible worm,_

_That flies in the night_

_In the howling storm:_

_Has found out thy bed_

_Of crimson joy:_

_And his secret love_

_Does thy life destroy._

William Blake, Jim recognised. He flipped through the pages, brows furrowing at drawing after drawing - bones, organs, tissues. Each page possessed a detailed inky drawing of some animal physiology. James had never been a gentleman of science, but he could distinguish enough from the drawings to discern they were of both animals and humans. A myriad of text surrounded each drawing, but Jim couldn’t make it out.

He flipped to the middle of the book and froze. On one page, an inky drawing of him smiled back at him. It was from the pub, Jim noticed. Sherlock had scribbled out the face of the person sitting next to him, who could only have been Michel. Jim flipped to the next page and flushed at the sight of himself lying on Michel’s mattress. Sherlock had put a sparkle in Jim’s eyes and postured him so that he looked fierce, confident despite the vulnerable position. Had he really looked like that?

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he flipped through page after page of himself. Numerous sketches showed him at boulangeries, cafés, strolling through streets with Paris as the backdrop. These lacked the details of their predecessors.

Then there was the theatre.

Jim hardly recognised himself in Falstaff’s garb. Sherlock captured his expression perfectly. Jim could feel his own empty humor, used to cover his despair during his honour speech. He could see the longing in his eyes for Prince Hal, his embarrassment at getting ambushed by his own friends, and his delight at weaponising language to protect him from even Prince Hal’s jibes. Sherlock had captured it all and immortalised it in this book.

Jim snapped the book shut and returned it to the shelf. He paced in the confines of the room, chewing his lower lip. The demon saw him. He saw right into the depths of Jim’s soul, he saw recesses of him reserved only for himself. Even his own family had never looked at him and truly _seen_.

But why him? How had a lowly Irish actor such as himself ensnared the attentions of such a creature?

 _Potential_. The word Sherlock had spoken resounded in his mind.

But the others Sherlock had taken in the past… They had this potential too, yet none of them had passed the tests. Jim stopped pacing. He didn’t know if the theatre would come for him, if they even knew where he was, but if there was anything Jim had learned from his life thus far, it was that he was _not_ “other people.”

Jim had endured and managed to survive this far. He could do it again. He would play Sherlock’s game. He would use his cooperation to learn the demon and his abode. Then, he would escape.

 

Jim scrutinised every corner of the room. He examined the metal collar that Sherlock had discarded to the floor. He discovered that it locked shut when two loops from either end intertwined. He sat on the floor and tugged on the contraption, but it wouldn’t disengage. He kept trying until it finally clicked open when he pressed the two ends closer together and twisted the one in his right hand inward.

Jim found a washroom attached to the bedroom. A large white tub resided against the far wall and a wardrobe was to his left. Jim approached the wardrobe and pulled long black trousers and a blue button up shift from inside. He had to roll up the sleeves and the legs, but he felt better clothed.

Once he finished learning the room, Jim opened the door - also unlocked - and took to the halls. Wandering freely, he ran his hand over the walls. A thrill raced through his veins. He felt exhilarated. Alive.

The halls, he learned after hours of exploration, followed an architectural fibonacci spiral, much like Paris’ arrondissements. Only after abandoning the notion of grids did Jim begin to decode the pattern. This was the West wing of the manor, Sherlock’s wing. The architecture was all spirals and curves. Delicate, yet bold.

Signs of the East wing appeared in the subtle changes in the walls. The curves began to sharpen out. Triangles appeared everywhere. The shapes of man overtook those of nature.

Jim stopped before a large door with a simple, yet undoubtedly expensive knob, when he smelled chicken, spices, and sweet, sweet broth. His stomach ached and he abandoned the door.

The actor followed the smell through the West wing, still on the edge of West and East, spirals and triangles. A set of swinging doors connected East and West and behind those doors, _food_.

Jim entered a large dining room.

“Mr. Moriarty, just in time,” a young woman dressed in a chef’s outfit guided him to a table.

Jim sat, bewildered. “Excuse me, who are you?”

“Antoinette, but you may call me Toni if you desire. I am a member of Mistress Adler’s staff.” The young woman smiled at him and Jim saw no fangs. “Worry not, Master Sherlock has assigned your health to me. As long as he permits it, I will ensure you receive the best nutrition.”

“You?” The woman looked like she could be his younger sister, had his parents cared to have any children after him.

“Mr. Moriarty, I encourage you for your own benefit to abandon any preconceived notions of the world, for I assure you all those conventions do not apply in this manor.”

Jim nodded. He ranked a woman as head-chef at the bottom of the list of oddities he’d encountered thus far.

“Here is your meal.”

Jim eyed the bowl of soup the woman placed before him wearily. Toni placed chopped baguettes to his right, but he was focused on the chunks of white meat floating in the soup. It smelled delicious. He scrunched his nose. “What is it?”

“I’m afraid I’m not allowed to tell you. Master Sherlock prefers his guests tell him what their meals consisted of.”

“How am I supposed to do that if you don’t tell me?”

The woman’s grey eyes swept slowly up and down Moriarty’s figure. He was seriously beginning to question whether or not she was human. She smiled again. “I have a feeling you will have no trouble figuring it out. You did find your way here, and clothes too. How bold.”

The salty scent of soup made Jim salivate, but he tried to focus. “The food... it’s another test then. You’ve helped Sherlock with his tests before. With the others.”

She only smiled. “Enjoy your meal, Mr. Moriarty.” She left without another word.

Jim was too hungry to turn the food down. He poured himself a glass of water and dipped the bread into his soup. 

~

“How is he doing?”

“Who?” Mycroft asked, diverting his attention from the unbound manuscript before him to his brother.

“My human, the actor.” Sherlock paced in front of Mycroft’s desk.

“Isn’t he rather your concern? I do recall you telling me to, what was it, ‘get my own’ and not touch your precious human.”

Sherlock stopped pacing and glared at his brother. “I told you not to touch him, but I never said you couldn’t _observe_ him. Besides, since when don’t you observe my humans?”

Mycroft stroked his chin as he met Sherlock’s gaze. “He made it to the kitchen. Antoinette presented him with his meal, and…”

“And?” Sherlock prodded.

“And he clothed himself in your attire.”

“ _Oh_.” Sherlock’s brows raised and he continued pacing as he considered this. None of the others had done that. He imagined the talented actor, enveloped in his scent. His fangs descended.

“Tsk tsk,” his brother chided and Sherlock shot him a look while trying to will away his bloodlust. “Why are you asking me about him? Why don’t you go find out what he’s up to for yourself? He is after all, Sherlock, your responsibility.”

Sherlock approached a chair across from his brother, but didn’t sit. His fingers danced antsy along the top of the chair. He lowered his voice. “You must feel it too.”

Mycroft dropped his quill. Silence reigned in the room. Sherlock could only barely hear his brother’s slow heartbeat. Mycroft nodded. “She’s coming home.”

“But why now?”

At this, Mycroft scoffed. “This is her house, Sherlock. She needn’t a reason to return home. We,” he motioned between himself and his brother, “are _hers_. But that’s not what you’re worried about, is it?” Mycroft sat up straighter, staring at Sherlock down his nose. “You’re worried because you broke the rules. You’re concerned about your human.”

“The rules are boring.”

“That doesn’t make them any less firm nor us any less subject to them. But you knew that. You were willing to take the risk, so why worry now? Regret doesn’t suit you, little brother.”

“He’s different.”

Mycroft wasn’t convinced. “Different how?”

“Well, he has slight immunity to us, for one-”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft stood. “You know what this means.”

Sherlock waved his brother off. “Yes, yes, he can’t be allowed to continue, but I have no intention of letting him go, so that’s not an issue.”

“You want to keep him?”

“If he passes the tests, yes. He shows more promise than anyone ever has, and his _mind_.”

“Yes?”

“It may even rival my own.”

Mycroft looked at Sherlock in disbelief. “If what you say is true, then all the more reason to get rid of him. Mistress knows one of you is quite enough.”

“I just don’t want her to take him from me, not when I’m so close to finally finding someone worthy. Someone who isn’t _boring_.”

“I’ve a feeling you’ll be able to make a case for him when she gets here. I give her… three days.”

“One and a half.”

“Two at the very least,” Mycroft challenged.

“You forget how much she made me drink from her last time. She’s still coursing through my veins.”

“She’s coursing through both our veins, Sherlock.”

“More so mine. One and a half days.”

Mycroft sank back into his chair. “If you’re so obsessed with your young actor, then why don’t you go pester him? I have work to do.”

“I’m certain increasing the Catholic church’s power in France constitutes as work.” Mycroft didn’t respond. He picked up his quill and continued writing. “Just say you’ll vouch for me.”

“To her?”

“No, to the staff. Of course to her.”

He met his brother’s gaze before offering a curt nod. “If this actor really means so much to you, then yes. I’ll vouch for you, but if you mess this up, it’s on you.”

Sherlock nodded and left the East wing. He breathed in deeply and followed Richard’s, no, James’ scent through the halls. He paused. His young actor had explored the entirety of the West wing.

Sherlock found Jim standing, clothed indeed in Sherlock’s attire, before the silver door. The vampire took a moment to appreciate how his scent clung to the actor’s body and mingled with Jim’s scent. Perspiration and dead roses. He categorised the delectable smell away for later and emerged from the shadows.

The actor didn’t notice Sherlock had joined him until Sherlock wrapped his arms around Jim’s body and pulled the human against himself. He delighted in the spike of Jim’s heartbeat and how his struggling stopped almost as quickly as it had begun. He could feel each muscle relax deliberately, consciously, with immense control. Jim slowed his breathing and his heartbeat followed. Sherlock could almost taste Jim’s dark past on his tongue, a past he had only glimpsed when flavoring him earlier. Oh yes, there was still _much_ to learn about this Irish actor.

In the silent, still moment, Sherlock appreciated his mark upon Jim’s neck, making the human his. He ran his tongue over the jagged indents - sloppy for him, but it had taken great will power not to rip into the man’s jugular. Jim’s blood still warmed him. The actor’s heart had picked up again and his skin grew hot under Sherlock’s touch, but he remained still.

“Tell me,” Sherlock drawled, delighting in how the hairs on Jim’s neck rose, “what did you eat for supper?”

“No.”

The vampire chuckled and pulled Jim tighter against his chest. He buried his nose in the actor’s neck, inhaling deeply. Jim’s arms hung loosely at his side, like a ragdoll. Interesting. “I suppose I will have to taste you to find out for myself.”

Now the actor tensed. “Soup,” he said, “chicken.”

Sherlock smiled into Jim’s neck. “Yes?”

“Bread, baguettes, but the traditional type - I could taste the fire, could tell they had been baked in a stone oven. The chicken was breast. White meat. Lean, but still succulent. There was rosemary and pepper, but I didn’t taste salt. The baguettes weren’t buttered and the broth was clear, not creamy. Vegetables were used for the flavour.”

“Which?” Sherlock asked while nuzzling Jim’s neck. His bite was still sensitive.

Jim squirmed in the vampire’s grasp. “Uh…”

“Which? Tell me, Jim.”

“Carrots,” Jim breathed out, now burning under Sherlock’s touch. “Celery, chard.”

Sherlock withdrew. He could feel his eyes burning. Jim turned and faced him, deep brown eyes bearing into his with confidence. “Am I right?”

“Yes, on all accounts save one.” Sherlock took a step towards the actor, revelling in how the confidence refused to rescind. “There was no rosemary.”

“But I tasted-”

“Thyme, you tasted thyme.” A simple mistake, but Sherlock wanted to play. “ _Come with me_.”

Jim looked indignant as he followed Sherlock away from the silver door and back towards Sherlock’s chambers. They passed the door to his room and entered a large, granite-floored room with six large tables. Books and what appeared to be experiments scattered the tabletops. The _smell_ struck Jim and he gagged. Rotting animals in varying stages of decomposition rested upon the tables. An entire table had nothing but eyeballs on it.

“ _Sit there_ ,” Sherlock commanded, pointing to a leather chair that looked like it had seen one too many experiments. Jim remained standing, his muscles tense and his body shaking. Sherlock raised a brow, but turned his back to the actor and searched the room.

Jim’s throat burned. He couldn’t breathe. All his muscles were aflame. He expected Sherlock to command him again, but the command never came. It needn’t come. One command was enough. Sherlock had said Jim possessed a level of immunity to his suggestion. If that was the case, Jim thought bitterly, it wasn’t doing him any favors.

Jim collapsed into the filthy chair. His skin crawled and he felt thankful he’d clothed himself. Sherlock was still searching the room, undoubtedly unable to easily locate whatever he was looking for in the mess. Jim took a moment to examine his surroundings. He was certain that one of the six tables had pieces of a cat on it. A cabinet on the left side of the room housed various glassware. Jim almost missed the desk in the back of the room because it was buried beneath textbooks and giant sheets of papers that reminded Jim of architectural blueprints - only these blueprints seemed to be for life itself.

Next to the desk, Jim saw a coffin. He wondered briefly if it was Sherlock’s and the legends were true, if demons truly were the living dead. But then his senses returned to him. The coffin was much too small for Sherlock. At most, it was six feet and Sherlock was at least that.

Jim stopped. Sherlock was still rummaging through stacks of books and papers, muttering to himself under his breath, but his compulsion no longer held power over Jim. He had fulfilled its requirements when he sat in the chair. Sherlock never said he had to _remain_ in the chair.

He stood up. A thrill raced through him.

Jim inched slowly to the open door. As he passed the decomposing cat, he held his breath to keep the soup down. He reached the door and slipped out as quietly as he could.

Once in the hallway, he sprinted. Whatever Sherlock planned to do to him in that room, in that chair, couldn’t be good. He followed the halls he had mapped out in his mind, turned left upon seeing the East wing and ran for where he guessed the manor’s entrance to be.

A woman, appearing to be in her mid-thirties, stood in front of a set of large doors. There were no windows, but Jim knew in his heart that those doors separated him from his salvation.

“Master Holmes has forbidden anyone to leave,” the woman said, eyes wide upon seeing Jim.

“I need to leave _now_.”

The woman frowned and shook her head slowly. “I cannot allow it.”

“ _James!”_

Jim felt his blood freeze as his name ricocheted off the walls. Sherlock was coming. He ran for the doors and the woman’s fist collided with his face. He crumbled to the floor, clutching his bleeding nose. He hadn’t expected such a small woman to have so much strength.

He pulled himself to his feet and the woman kicked his chest, sending him crashing back to the marble floors. He gasped, wind knocked out of him, and she placed a foot on his chest.

When Jim looked up, Sherlock stood over him looking absolutely monstrous. His upper canines extended past his lower lip, he had dark circles around his unnatural blue-green eyes, and his complexion was as pale as freshly driven snow.

“I’m sorry, Master Holmes. I did not intend on damaging him.”

“You did well, Marie.” Sherlock spoke to the woman without ever looking at her. He collapsed to his knees besides Jim and Marie resumed her post at the door.

Sherlock straddled Jim and pulled his bloody hands from his nose. He bent over him and licked the blood from his lips. His licks turned into open mouth kisses and Jim shook as those sharp canines brushed against his lips. The actor whimpered softly when Sherlock abandoned his lips and began kissing the bite mark on his neck. He gasped when teeth tore into him.

Pleasure curled in Jim’s gut, flashing hot. He gripped Sherlock’s shoulders, trying to hold onto his sanity as he felt the demon above him drag _through_ him.

He felt that familiar presence thrumming in his mind, touching, tasting all of him. Jim closed his eyes, uncurled his toes and stilled his mind. _Calm_. He could see Sherlock there, deep inside himself, but not as he appeared in real life. He was much more defined in Jim’s mind. Marble replaced his pale skin, cracks ran along the surface. An ocean roared in his eyes - blue green billows whirling infinitely.

They were in Jim’s hometown, in his old house. So common. So boring. Jim expected Sherlock to scoff at the dirt floors, but the sculpted creature before him had eyes only for him.

Jim swallowed at the intensity of Sherlock’s focus and approached the creature - so out of place in his mind, in his prison - and reached out. Sherlock burned under his touch, or maybe it was Jim who was freezing. Jim caressed Sherlock’s cheek.

Then he heard his father banging on the door, demanding entry. The noise didn’t trouble him with Sherlock burning besides him. _So pretty_ , his mind echoed his first thought of the creature. _So fucking beautiful_.

He lost himself in the spiral of green in blue. He followed it into the black abyss.

Suddenly the house faded. Sherlock pulled abruptly from his touch and spun in a circle, taking in their new locale. Fire. Red, hot. An adolescent with dark, curly hair clung to his brother. People sprinted down cobblestone streets. Was this… London? The immense flames consumed the buildings and the smoke swallowed the brothers. But, through the smoke, Jim saw someone stalking towards the men. A woman? She outstretched a hand…

Jim gasped as Sherlock flung off him, blood dripping down his chin. “You…” he licked his lips.

Jim searched Sherlock’s face. The emotions were laid bare on that usually well-guarded visage. Puzzlement, intrigue, and yes… lust. The actor moved to his feet with practiced grace, ignoring how his vision swam with the motion. He strided towards him and delighted in how Sherlock let him - how he stood powerless in his stunned stupor before him.  Jim darted out his tongue and tasted his metallic blood on Sherlock’s chin. The demon startled backwards when Jim’s tongue swept across his lips.

And what beautiful lips they were.

Oh yes. Jim could already see the plan forming in the back of his mind as Sherlock recomposed himself, slipping what Jim learned to be his mask back in place. But it was too late. He had already seen beneath the façade, had already learned that beneath those cold, calculating, beautiful eyes, there was a _man_ desperate to escape the mundane. A man not so unlike himself. And Jim, in his very essence, was an escape. So too could Sherlock become for him. He would make sure of it.

Sherlock stared at him and Jim smiled, his own blood gleaming on his teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is in the works, but I might jump back to my other Sheriarty story before finishing it. Feel free to stalk me on Tumblr if you desire. 
> 
> http://scarrlet-raven.tumblr.com/
> 
> Oh and I might do a MorMorLock Christmas Special (in the summer?? Indeed) if I can get Moran's character down enough. ;) See you~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darlings! Your favourite bird is back with a new chapter! Feel free to stop by my Tumblr (linked in my profile) if you'd like to chat or see what I'm up to when I'm not posting.

“Let me out!” 

Sherlock rubbed his temples. Ever since Jim’s failed escape attempt and subsequent detainment in Sherlock’s chamber, the human had not stopped screaming. Sherlock had chained him to his bed to prevent further mayhem while he took time to think, but even on the other side of the West Wing, he could hear Jim’s shrieks, could feel his anger. 

_ I’ve drinken too much of him _ , Sherlock thought to himself,  _ I’ve simply drinken too much too quickly. _ But Sherlock had drained others close to death and none of them had pushed back and looked at him, looked into him. 

“You can’t keep me locked up forever!” 

But he could, couldn’t he? Sherlock could leave his little actor chained in his chamber and the human couldn’t do anything about it. The immense strength James possessed was all mental, a quality gained from his character and his upbringing. The only real combat the Irishman knew was stage fighting: while it looked impressive, all the punches were pulled. There was no impact.

Still, Sherlock could feel Jim almost as strongly as he could feel his Mistress. A piece of him remained lodged in Sherlock’s mind, watching the London sky fill with ash. 

Sherlock busied himself in his work. With the smell of formaldehyde thick in the air and with his nose buried in the most advanced—yet still immensely lacking—medical texts from the Middle East, Jim’s presence faded to the back of the vampire’s mind. He fell into rhythm with his work, categorising decomposition rates and the effects of various chemicals on lens deterioration. 

Sherlock only snapped out of his work-induced haze when he noticed Jim’s silence. He reached out with his mind, feeling for his human. 

Nothing.

He was on his feet and out the door without delay. He moved through the corridors and swiftly pulled open the doors to his chamber. Jim had vanished. His collar lay open on Sherlock’s bed: a taunt. But he couldn’t have gone far.

The vampire scented the air. Jim’s musk was muffled, but still traceable. He hadn’t left the manor. Sherlock followed the trail to the dining room. He stopped just outside the door, his body growing warm as he grew nearer to the source of its warmth. 

“Jean Vatel,” the actor’s voice rung out, “this kale is splendid. You must teach me how you and Toni sauteed it.” 

“Antoinette did not aid in this meal. It’s a creation completely my own,” Vatel said. 

“My compliments.”

Sherlock calmed himself and entered the room. Jean Vatel bowed his head and stepped back in deference. 

“Ah, Sherlock, so good of you to join us. Have you come for another snack?” Jim wiggled his eyebrows at the pale creature before him and tilted his head to bare his still bloody neck. Sherlock stiffly attempted to avoid looking at the offering, to little avail. “No?” Jim asked. “Suit yourself.” He shoved a forkful of kale into his mouth before cutting into the juicy steak on his plate. 

Sherlock wondered what had inspired this change of character. This was not the Richard Brook he had stalked in Paris. This was James Moriarty, slipped on like a costume. Or perhaps Brook had been the costume and this confident, fearless individual had always lurked just beneath the surface, waiting to come out and play. 

“Excellent choice of meal, Vatel,” Sherlock spoke to his chef. “Kale and steak have proven to stave off the negative effects of blood loss, and potatoes are a fine source of energy.” 

Vatel dipped his head, cheeks reddened with the praise. 

“Tell me,” Sherlock directed his attention to Jim who continued eating but glanced up at the demon with those dark eyes of his, “how long did it take you to solve the collar’s mechanism?”

Jim smiled genuinely, the blood from his steak making him look like a vampire himself. “Wouldn’t you love to know so you could write it down. You do love your precious data.” 

The words were a taunt. Sherlock had killed people for less, but it was quickly becoming clear that Jim wasn’t “people.” 

Sherlock sank into the chair opposite him. “ _ Tell me _ .”

Jim cocked his head to one side, but the smile had vanished. His eyes darkened and he ground out, “ _ No _ .” His grip on his cutlery had tightened; his knuckles turned white and his hands shook.

“What do you expect resistance to offer you? You have no power here. Your mind belongs to me.” Even if Sherlock knew Jim’s resistance was pointless, a simple waste of time and energy for the both of them, he remained impressed by it nonetheless.

Jim was sweating profusely. The wound on his neck began bleeding again as his heart strained in his chest. “Yesterday,” he spat out. Looking miffed, he sank back into his chair. “I don’t know how long it took, but I figured it out yesterday before leaving my room.” 

Jim considered Sherlock’s room his own. Interesting. “You are clever,” Sherlock spoke aloud. “I’ll have to keep you on a shorter leash from now on.”

If this idea displeased Jim, he showed no sign of it. Instead, he took another bite of steak and stabbed a potato.

“Vatel.”

“Sir?”

“Bring me a glass.” Sherlock’s eyes never left Jim.

“Yes, sir.” The chef quickly presented an empty wine glass to Sherlock. “Would you like me to prepare something for you, sir?”

“No.” Sherlock ran his pointer finger over the rim of the glass. Jim glanced at it with poorly veiled interested. Or perhaps he wanted Sherlock to believe he was interested. Perhaps that too was part of his act. Sherlock couldn’t tell what was Richard and what was Jim. Regardless, the human soon would be interested.

Sherlock bit into his radial artery, containing the spray in the cup. His blood was thick and black as it oozed from the deep wound. Realisation dawned on his human’s visage before Sherlock pushed the glass towards him. 

“I can’t.”

Sherlock felt arousal coil in his gut at the flash of panic that broke through Jim’s blasé façade.  _ There you are _ . “You can,” Sherlock said. “You will.” His gaze tracked the microexpressions on Jim’s face. He drank in the emotions, the confliction. He saw Jim’s body shiver in remembrance of pain. “I would like to try something.”

Jim’s eyes flickered from the glass to Sherlock and remained there. It was all the invitation the vampire needed.

He leaned forwards. “ _ Crave my blood. Every gulp will bring you pleasure and make you want it more _ .” Sherlock slumped backwards, the strength of the compulsion draining him. “Now,” he said without compulsion, “drink.”

Jim grabbed the glass and lifted it to his lips. His fear was evident in the short pause, the widened eyes, but his desire overrode his fear and he tilted the glass backwards. Sherlock took pleasure in watching Jim’s Adam's apple bob as he drank down his blood. The glass fell back to the table, liquid sloshing onto the wood. Jim groaned and shivered. His muscles contorted and he looked torn between pain and pleasure. 

Jim closed his eyes, then, with abandon, he lifted the glass back to his lips and began gulping Sherlock’s blood. The wound on his neck began to close and his tongue darted into the glass. He licked it clean before turning his attention to the spilled blood on the table, cleansing it too. He sucked his fingers before his eyes locked onto the vampire himself. 

Jean Vatel had the good sense to grab Jim’s plate moments before the actor leapt across the table at Sherlock. The vampire caught him with steady hands and maneuvered him onto his lap. Jim grabbed Sherlock’s arm as he straddled him. The wound had already healed, but that didn’t stop the human from licking the dried blood from Sherlock’s skin, nor from rocking his erection against Sherlock’s own. Sherlock gasped, resisting the urge to sink his teeth into the human again so soon.

Jim was desperate. He pawed as Sherlock’s shirt and Sherlock indulged him by unbuttoning it and letting it drape behind them. Vatel took his cue to clear off the table and leave. The moment he disappeared, Sherlock lifted Jim and slammed him onto the table, backside down. Jim, momentarily dazed, quickly regained their connection. He gnawed at Sherlock’s wrist, trying to draw blood. Sherlock pulled his own shirt off of Jim’s lithe body and scented the human beneath him. His human. He slit his tongue on a canine and kissed him.

Jim writhed beneath him, moaning openly as he swallowed Sherlock in mouthfuls. The bite mark Sherlock had left of Jim’s neck had been reduced to a silvery scar, a sign of Sherlock’s ownership.

When Sherlock pulled back, Jim whined. “Fuck me.” His pupils were blown, black swallowed his eyes. “Fuck me, Sherlock.”

“My, my, my. I don’t believe my eyes. Little Sherlock Holmes is getting his hands dirty.”

Sherlock froze atop Jim. How had he not felt her return? His blood went cold and his arousal ebbed. 

“By all means, don’t stop on my account. Continue, my love.”

Sherlock stroked Jim’s face and the human pressed into his touch. “ _ I release you from your compulsion _ .”

Jim shuddered. Then he screamed. His body convulsed on the table as Sherlock moved off of him and bowed low before his sire.

“Mistress Irene,” he spoke so low that Jim’s screams nearly drowned him out. “I apologise for not recognising your arrival.”

A long-nailed finger curled beneath Sherlock’s chin, lifting him to his full height. Irene’s eyes sparkled with curiosity and desire. “It seems you were preoccupied.”

“Never so much to not properly attend to you. I am sorry.” Sherlock cast his eyes downward, hyperaware of Jim writing behind him, of Jim’s scent clinging to his body, inside his body.

“Tell me, Sherlock, why is he screaming when he was begging you to fuck him moments ago?”

“My blood causes him physical pain when ingested. I had compelled him to experience pleasure when tasting my blood as an experiment.”

“Ah. Did the pain vanish with the command?”

Sherlock tried not to show his displeasure at his Mistress’ interest in his human. “No. The pain was still there, the pleasure was simply greater.”

“Fascinating. Perhaps we can try something similar.” Sherlock could feel his sire’s smile without needing to see it. She ran her fingers down his bare arms, causing fire to ignite. Sherlock held still. “Perhaps with the riding crop,” she whispered.

Jim stopped writhing. “Seven minutes and forty-two seconds,” Sherlock said. When Irene looked at him, he elaborated, “Since he took his first sip of my blood with the compulsion. Either he is developing a tolerance or the compulsion reduced the period of pain.”

Irene gazed at Jim. “What do you call him?” Jim sat up on the table, as if he could feel her eyes on him. They stared at one another.

“James Moriarty,” Sherlock answered.

At the sound of his name, Jim glanced at Sherlock. He stood slowly, taking a moment to find his balance. With his blood pounding through his human’s body, Sherlock knew Jim felt stronger than before. But the actor was also confused and weary of Irene. Weary of Sherlock himself, the vampire noted. Jim’s virginity was sacred to him and he felt violated that Sherlock could make him give it up so easily. 

Sherlock pulled himself back into his own mind as Jim approached him and his sire. 

“You must be Sherlock’s Mistress,” he said, sounding remarkably calm despite the turmoil Sherlock had seen in his mind.

“I am,” Irene confirmed. She was pleased Sherlock had mentioned her. “How did you know?”

Jim took her in, from her tightly laced corset to her pale pink chemise and tight-fitting bodice. She wore a long skirt made full by layers of horsehair petticoats beneath. Her clothing was immaculate, showing none of the wear of travel. “You are the only person Sherlock has addressed respectfully.”

Irene laughed at this, her long white canines on full display. Her blue eyes sparkled. “I like you,” she said. “Sherlock, you must tell me where you found someone so remarkably observant, but first let us find Mycroft, shall we?”

“ _ Follow us silently _ ,” Sherlock commanded Jim before falling in step besides his sire. Jim’s usual reticence had vanished and he complied without resistance.  _ Another mask?  _ Sherlock wondered. They reached the entrance to the East Wing. “Shall I return my human to my chambers while we discuss your travels?”

Irene turned and looked Jim up and down. “Do you always let your pets wear your clothes now, Sherlock?”

Irene was tangled deeply enough into his mind that she knew when he was lying. “He’s the only one,” Sherlock admitted. 

“I thought it was strange you were behaving yourself, but now I see it wasn’t for my sake. It was for his.” Her eyes narrowed and Jim took a step back, closer to Sherlock. “Tell me, what makes him so special.” When Sherlock didn’t respond, Irene repeated, “ _ Tell me _ .”

“He’s immune.” Sherlock looked ready to hit himself when Irene turned on Jim. She bore her teeth and lifted a long-nailed hand. Sherlock leapt in front of Jim as the hand swiped down. Her nails sliced through Sherlock’s chest and Jim barely caught the vampire as he fell, bleeding profusely.

“Immune?  _ Immune! _ ” Irene fumed.

The wounds on Sherlock’s chest slowly stitched themselves back together and he staggered back to his feet, keeping Jim behind him. “Not completely. He’s more resistant than most humans, but his  _ mind _ -”

“Sherlock.” Irene sounded like an irate mother.

“Please, let me keep him. He’s not going anywhere. He’s no threat to us.”

Mycroft appeared in the corridor. “Mistress,” he greeted. He stiffened at the scent of Sherlock’s blood spilt on the floor, but quickly deduced what had happened and returned his attention to their sire. He bowed low before straightening. “If I may, Mistress, I have never seen Sherlock so enthralled by any human. I believe we needn’t worry about Jim or any future progeny of his posing a threat to us.”

“Mycroft, I’m shocked. Perhaps it was a mistake to leave you two to your own devices.” Irene’s gaze flicked back to Sherlock and just beyond him to the human whose heartbeat was barely elevated despite the argument over his life unfolding before him. “You are mine, the both of you.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Mycroft agreed, bowing his head.

“Yes,” Sherlock echoed after a pause. “But I would like Jim to remain mine.”

“Everything you are, dear,” Irene said as she closed in on Sherlock, “everything you own, you have because of me.”

Sherlock met her gaze. “Yes, and I request you allow me this one human.”

Irene moved even closer until they were almost touching. She moved without sound, with a grace that Sherlock couldn’t help but admire. “Fine,” Irene agreed with a smile, “but you will behave for me. And you will attend my galas and socialise respectfully, tactfully, and without complaint.”

Sherlock grimaced.

“Jim, dear,” Irene called, “ _ you are free of Sherlock’s compulsion _ .”

“I- how did you-?” Jim looked at Irene in bemusement.

“Fine,” Sherlock agreed. “But do not compel him.”

“You are in no position to be making demands, Sherlock.”

“We can use the riding crop,” Sherlock said. “You can…” he swallowed. “You can compel me. I won’t fight you. Just leave him alone.”

Irene smiled. “Agreed. You may take your pet back to your room and change, but  _ be back here in one hour _ .” 

Sherlock stiffened, but nodded. He began leading Jim back to the West Wing when Irene called out.

“And Jim? You must be something special if Sherlock is willing to give up his mind for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a primarily Sheriarty/Jimlock story and will remain so. I also wanted to include some aspects of the canon in regards to Irene's fascination with Sherlock, but Sherlock's fascination will mostly be with Jim (although he does respect Irene in many ways). Questions/comments/concerns/Jimlock appreciation? Feel free to leave them below! 
> 
> See you next time!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Vampire!lock](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11905956) by [VerseNaberrie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerseNaberrie/pseuds/VerseNaberrie)




End file.
